RSVP
by Totenkinder Madchen
Summary: Sergeant Major Beach Head, veteran Ranger, is about to face his toughest challenge yet-serving as Hawk's executive aide at a fancy Washington shindig. Can he survive in a world that knows more about wine tastings than WMDs? Humor.
1. Cordially Invited

**Author's ****Note:** This one has been sitting on the back burner for ages. It was inspired by a throwaway line of willwrite4fics', mentioning a legendary incident where Beach Head had been required at a diplomatic Washington function. It was supposed to be a one-shot, but it spiraled out of control, and after much frustration I've decided to go ahead with it in chaptered form. This and Order Up will be updating in order; first one, then the other, and so on.

This fic is also a blatant sop to my love of Senator Barbara Larkin, a neglected character who did _not_deserve to get murdered. Since this is light comedy, I feel okay with bending the canon just a bit on that score.

Quick note regarding Beach: after some deliberation, I decided not to give him a too-emphasized phonetic accent this time. I like writing it, but I'm afraid of becoming dependent on it, when in fact he speaks more straightforwardly in the comics canon.

**Rating: **T

**Pairings: **None, really. Some mentions and innuendo.

**Disclaimer: **G.I. Joe and all associated characters and concepts are property of Hasbro Inc, and I derive no profit from this. Please accept this in the spirit with which it is offered—as a work of respect and love, not an attempt to claim ownership or earn money from this intellectual property.

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><p><strong>RSVP<strong>

_by Totenkinder Madchen_

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><p><strong>Chapter One: Cordially Invited<strong>

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><p>A certain amount of politics has always accompanied war. What is politics, after all, but a form of territory control that just racks up less of a body count?<p>

During the days of the British Raj's rule in India, the British would often send envoys to the local maharajahs and maharanis, trying to cajole them into cooperation. There would be formal balls, elaborate gifts, and a great many conversations about What was Good for the People. In theory, if the politicians are good enough then there's no call for soldiers to sacrifice themselves, and everybody goes home happy. However, it's an unfortunate truth that trying to avoid soldiers' sacrifice doesn't mean it actually _will _be avoided.

Even an elite force like G.I. Joe, comprised of the best and brightest America had to offer, was often at the whim of politicians. They had racked up a lot of property damages over the years, and while they were good soldiers, their enemies had fielded an even more insidious weapon: a P.R. department. Their commanding officer, General Clayton "Hawk" Abernathy, routinely found himself called on the carpet to answer for his actions while the Cobra leaders slipped through the net.

It was in an effort to boost the team's public image that General Hawk had, with apparent reluctance, agreed to attend _the _social event of the season. The Diamond Gala was held every two years by Washington D.C.'s finest families, and the guest list boasted an impressive array of cabinet officials, venerable senior senators, political-dynasty scions, military officers, deep-pocketed society matrons and other influential types. Rumor in the Pit ran that Hawk was planning to use the Gala as cover to cut some deals with bigwigs in the Department of Intelligence, although officially, none of the Joes outside of command knew about it. Only a few Joes were even vaguely interested in the Gala itself, although some got a snicker out of the image of the Tomahawk surrounded by Washington bluebloods.

Wayne Sneeden, better known to G.I. Joe as Beach, Beach Head, "that thing, oh God, what the hell was it" and Sgt. Major, didn't pay much attention to the rumors about the event in question. He was one of the ranking men in the Pit, along with Duke, Flint, and Hawk himself, but Beach Head's areas of authority tended towards the hands-on; he (reluctantly) handled a minimum of paperwork, and spent the rest of his time running PT, being deployed for short missions in dangerous parts of the world, and serving as god-emperor of all greenshirts. (He prided himself on that last accomplishment; he had it on good authority that, even years later, certain Airborne Rangers still wet themselves when they heard an Alabama accent.)

Despite his carefully-cultivated image as an angry wall of meat and a thick accent that just _dared_ you to use the word 'redneck,' Beach Head was actually a strikingly intelligent man. He had been decently educated and had a fine, inquisitive mind, as well as a keen knowledge of tactics and the ability to convince even other intelligent people that he was actually stupid—an invaluable advantage more than once. He was aware of the stereotypes about Southerners, and like fellow Joe Cross-Country, he used them to his benefit. Underestimating Sgt. Major Beach Head guaranteed you a swift ticket to intensive care.

Unfortunately, the one thing Beach Head was not was _subtle. _He spent a lot of time in life-or-death situations, risking everything against a ruthless enemy that had killed friends of his before, and an integral part of his job was to prepare other people for those same kinds of situations. He understood political maneuvering, but he had a severe distaste for it. Deliberately making yourself disliked? Beach Head understood the advantage of that, and used it every day. Making yourself_ liked_? He wasn't so good at that. It seemed much more manipulative to him, and required a kind of bloodless sneakiness that he just didn't have.

When he got the call to Hawk's office two days before the Gala, he didn't think much of it. He was called in for one reason or another every other day, either to discuss business or to answer for the actions of yet another demented group of greenshirts. When he entered the office, though, Hawk fixed him with a level stare that instantly set Beach Head's mental alarms ringing.

"At ease." Beach promptly relaxed about a tenth of an iota, and given what he could see, even that was pushing it. Hawk had several interesting pieces of paper on his desk, but none was more worrisome than a thick personnel file with "Sneeden, Wayne R." written on the tab. Beach Head mentally reviewed everything that had happened in the last week, scanning every memory for the possibility of severe reprimand, court-martial, or just One of Hawk's Looks. Nothing sprung to mind.

"Quite a list of decorations," Hawk noted, removing a list from the file and glancing at it. "Silver Star, Bronze Star, more Purple Heart recommendations than Snake-Eyes . . . I see that Col. Willmore even submitted your name for the Legion of Merit while you came back from your last overseas tour, though that was struck down before it could go through. Something about you meeting a member of the executive selection committee when you were both out of uniform?"

"Ran into each other at the PX, sir." Beach's voice was level, and his eyes were fixed on a spot about a foot above Hawk's head.

"And you didn't know he was a member of the committee?"

"Looked like any other pogue, sir. He was in civvies."

"An argument ensued, during which you told him . . ." Hawk turned over another piece of paper "that if he didn't 'keep his gawddamn mouth shut about what he didn't know' and get his ass back to the rear echelon, you personally would jam his head so far up said ass that he would have to get a proctologist to brush his teeth. Or words to that effect."

Beach Head didn't so much as twitch. "That I did, sir."

The general shook his head. "He disparaged the Rangers, eh?"

"No, sir. Talkin' shit about my recruits, sir." Beach Head was still unfazed; anybody looking in would have assumed that spot on the wall was the most interesting thing in the world. "Only I'm allowed to do that, sir."

"Probably for the best." Hawk closed the folder. "The Legion of Merit is a damn showy medal, and it clashes like hell with any uniform you put it on. You have the decorations you did earn with you, though? The ones that aren't locked up in a classified safe in the Pentagon."

Now Beach Head did blink. He hadn't been anticipating this line of questioning. "Yes, sir."

"Good." Hawk stood up, sliding Beach Head's file aside. "Now, I know for a fact that you haven't worn your dress greens since God knows when. You're going to have to get them out of storage, and probably re-tailored too." Beach's mask slipped into pure incomprehending confusion, which was pretty much what Hawk had been aiming for. The sergeant major was less likely to cause trouble if you kept him off balance.

" . . . sir?" Beach said finally. "What do my dress greens have to do with anything?"

"The Diamond Gala. I need two executive aides for the evening. Duke will be coming with to help with the intel side of the proceedings, but an extra set of hands is always useful—and call me overly cautious, but I don't feel any safer with lawyers than with Cobras."

Hawk was rather enjoying the opportunity to completely surprise Beach Head. Judging from his expression, the sergeant major couldn't have been more floored if he was a skating rink.

"Sir, Ah . . ." Beach Head was definitely at a loss for words, and in his confusion, his accent tried to make a break for it. "With all due respect, sir . . ." His natural deference for the chain of command was fighting with his utter loathing of social situations, and for a moment, they shut down his vocal chords while they duked it out.

"You can speak freely, sergeant major," Hawk said, settling back into his chair again. Beach Head gulped a little.

"With all due respect," Beach repeated, "wouldn't someone like Flint or Jaye be better? They know how to-" Lie to people, and use weasel word shit like 'undiplomatic' and 'regrettable.' "-act political."

Hawk fixed Beach Head with a level stare. "Sergeant major, have I ever given you an order that didn't have a good reason behind it?"

"Nossir."

"Do you trust that I knew what I was doing when I elected to have you serve as one of my aides for the Gala?"

Beach Head caught the implied rebuke and stiffened. "Sir, yes, sir!"

"Then it's settled. Go get your dress greens and medals out of storage, and report to the motor pool in full formal kit at 1700 hours tomorrow."

"Yessir!"

"Dismissed."

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><p>Naturally, word got out almost immediately. Hawk's longtime executive secretary, a clever paper-pusher with the code name of Inkblot, had learned of the chosen aides before even Duke and Beach Head did—and though he would never own up to it, the fact remained that only ten minutes after the shellshocked Beach had left the general's office, everybody on the administrative level knew why the sergeant major was looking so out of sorts. From that point on, the gossip network went into full swing.<p>

If Administration had a juicy piece of nonclassified gossip, it was only a matter of minutes—an hour at most—before Custodial got hold of it while cleaning the offices. Once Custodial had it, they carried it straight to the kitchens . . . and when the kitchen knew it, the Joes knew it.

"Going to the ball, huh, Beach? Where's your glass slippers?"

"Ten bucks says he PTs half the State Department brass."

"Isn't there a rule about weapons of mass destruction on government property?"

Beach Head ignored them, as he usually did. He wasn't in the business of making himself liked, and anyway, if Hawk had chosen him then it was indeed for a specific reason. Maybe Hawk was planning on causing a distraction, or anticipated a Cobra raid on the party, or something. He immediately went and got his dress uniform out of storage, made sure his medals and ribbons were in perfect condition, polished his shoes, and went over everything with a fine-tooth comb. He didn't like the idea of attending a Washington shindig, but he wasn't going to turn up looking like some damn Air Force jerkoff. And, because he was an Army Ranger and a member of G.I. Joe, he double-checked to make sure the uniform would still conceal two sidearms, three knives, an emergency tourniquet and a small packet of flares. Y'know. Just in case.

And meanwhile, Hawk sat back in his office and thought. He checked his watch, knowing that the word would be all over the base by now: Inkblot wasn't nearly as sneaky as he thought he was, and Hawk made a habit of keeping an ear on the gossip network in situations like these. How the sergeant major behaved in the next twenty-four hours would tell him a lot about whether Hawk's plan was solid; if he couldn't handle the hazing and princess jokes from his fellow Joes, he certainly wouldn't be able to handle what he would likely face at the Gala. However, Hawk had every confidence in Beach Head: the man might be unpolished (and thank God for that. Like the saying went, no combat-ready unit ever passed inspection, and no inspection-ready unit ever passed combat) but he was adaptable. Even better, he had the perfect temperament for what Hawk had in mind.

He checked his watch again and picked up the phone, dialing a number known only to him and one other person in the world. Breaker and Mainframe had installed all kinds of blocks and scramblers on the general's private line, and he was certain it was secure. Good thing, too. He would rather not be overheard in this particular instance.

"Afternoon, senator," he said, leaning back in his chair. "I hope I'm not disturbing you?"

"Of course not," the senator responded. She sounded a little breathless; from what Hawk knew of her schedule, she would be in between two arduous meetings at the moment.

"Excellent. I wanted to tell you that everything's going as planned."

He couldn't see her face, but from her tone, it was obvious that a smile had appeared on her face. "That's wonderful news, general. Which one did you end up choosing? The loud one, or the happy one?"

"The loud one. The happy one's currently posted someplace that, as far as anyone is concerned, doesn't actually exist." The senator let out a little laugh at that, and Hawk smiled just a bit. "I take it you're going to be attending the event?"

"I wouldn't miss this for the world, Clayton."

"Excellent." Hawk closed Beach Head's file and permitted himself a whole half-smile now. "Operation Dundee is now in effect."

"Oh, no, you didn't _use _the name I suggested? You do know I was joking, right?"

"Of course," Hawk replied, straight-faced. "But as a member of the armed forces, I consider it my duty to take the suggestions of our legislative branch under advisement."

"I know that tone, Clayton," the senator said with another laugh. "Is someone going to get thrown out a window?"

"If the legislative branch is equally amenable to suggestions from the armed forces, I'd advise leaving your best jewelry at home."

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><p>The current Pit was several hundred miles from Washington D.C., but that kind of thing never bothered a team with access to the quickest and most advanced planes the Pentagon could deny the existence of. By 1655 hours, three men had assembled in the hangar in front of a sophisticated tilt-rotor aircraft that was guaranteed to get them to the capitol as quickly and quietly as possible. Cobra was still out there, after all, and even the Diamond Gala couldn't stop them trying to blow up G.I. Joe's leader if they had the chance. It clearly amused Hawk that he would probably be arriving in a safer vehicle than the President—although, to be fair, the President had never been specifically targeted by an insane clone made up of twelve different legendary warriors and one confused ninja. The general appeared calm, confident and relaxed in his dress uniform, although everyone present knew for a fact that his stars had been sharpened on the sly just in case.<p>

Duke and Beach Head arrived at the same time. Duke appeared almost as calm as Hawk, but he was also wary: either he'd put on a little weight recently or his dress greens were incorrectly hiding low-profile body armor, which was never _quite _as low-profile as the techies billed it. Beach Head made a mental note to run the First Shirt extra-hard for the next couple of weeks, in case it really was weight gain.

Beach, on the other hand, had managed to conceal his armaments and equipment with a minimum of trouble. Physically, he wasn't much larger than Duke, but between his attitude and his sheer volume he had always conveyed the impression of being bigger than he actually was. People looked at him expecting him to be gigantic, meaning the extra room necessary to hide some of the weapons never stood out to them; the additional bulk just confirmed what they had already assumed. (Duke, on the other hand, radiated Clean-Cut All-American Good Guy, where any perceived physical imperfection was sure to elicit comment.) But concealed weapons didn't necessarily make for a calm Ranger, and Beach was using a great deal of his training not to fidget as he waited by Duke and Hawk.

It wasn't that he was scared. Beach Head didn't do "scared," not even when facing down a psychotic terrorist or eight. But, as shown by the number of weapons he was currently carrying, Beach Head also didn't do "unprepared": he knew that battles were often won or lost depending on who did the most prep work. But frankly, he had no idea how to prep for something like the Diamond Gala.

When he was kid, his family hadn't quite been the sort to . . . the type to travel in the more refined . . . yeah, okay, they'd been poor. Really poor. The Sneedens had been hanging on by the skin of their teeth, and more than one teacher had initially written off the bedraggled and underfed young Wayne as hopeless white trash. Beach Head had fought and clawed for everything he had now, educating himself in the public library when the underfunded school couldn't do it and making it all the way to the Rangers with nothing but grit and an evil gleam in his eye. His experience with politicians mainly consisted of guarding them at public functions and resisting the urge to groan when one of them handed down a jackshit-stupid decision. Spending a whole evening surrounded by pols and diplomats, especially at an event straightfacedly billing itself as a "gala," was very much out of his experience zone.

But Hawk had tapped him for the duty, and Beach Head knew that Hawk always had a plan. He straightened his shoulders another millimeter and tried to stay cool.

Curious Joes had begun to assemble around the edges of the hangar while Wild Bill performed the final checks on the tilt-rotor craft. There was a lot of whispering and sly nudging going on, and Beach took mental notes of everyone who mentioned his name: if they thought seeing him in his dress greens (not to mention maskless) was so damn funny, then they clearly needed to be educated further about the role of formal gear in a soldier's life. Three times through a mudpit course while dressed in suits and ties would probably learn them some knowledge.

When the checks were completed, Hawk issued his final instructions to Wild Bill and then swung easily up into the passenger compartment of the craft. Duke and Beach Head followed, silent and watchful.

"Remember, sir, they have to be home by midnight!" someone shouted to Hawk. Beach Head swiveled on his heel and fixed the assembled Joes with an evil stare.

"Not if the fairy godmother wants to keep her government contract," Hawk said mildly, causing a ripple of laughter from the rubberneckers. Beach was still glaring down the Joes, while Duke tried to get him to move. "Sergeant and sergeant major, if you wouldn't mind?"

The two men saluted and scurried towards the craft, getting another laugh from the crowd. Beach Head, his red ears the only outward sign of his embarrassment at having the general yank his leash, privately vowed that when this was all over he would make it _five _times through the mudpit course. And not just in suits or dress greens, either. Could he find enough ruffled polyester tuxedos for twenty soon-to-be-penitent Joes? Why, yes. Yes he could.


	2. Our Distinguished Guests

**Author's Note:** Ahhh! Feels good to be back in the writing groove. I'm rather pleased with this chapter, though of course, we're still setting up the ninepins for our beloved sergeant major to knock down. I have lots of plans for him in store, complete with evil plotting and . . . well . . . I can't give everything away, can I? Let's settle for the keyword: "oenophile."

Credit to willwrite4fics, who wrote the story that inspired this little exercise in torture. And thanks to my military brothers Danger Guy and shrapnil77, who actually call me up at 11 PM and say "Hey, I have a great idea for a G.I. Joe story . . ."

**Rating: **T

**Pairings: **None, really. Some mentions and innuendo.

**Disclaimer: **G.I. Joe and all associated characters and concepts are property of Hasbro Inc, and I derive no profit from this. Please accept this in the spirit with which it is offered—as a work of respect and love, not an attempt to claim ownership or earn money from this intellectual property.

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><p><strong>Chapter Two: Our Distinguished Guests<strong>

Washington looked beautiful from the air. The sun had just finished setting, leaving only a narrow strip of orange on the horizon, but the sky above them was fading from deep blue to the velvet purple of a city night, and the nation's capital was a mottled map of grays now spangled with thousands of lights. Beach Head liked it: from this high up, it was impossible to see the politicians or the petty squabbling between parties. The white spire of the Washington Monument and the long dark line of the Vietnam Memorial stood out against the fading background, two extremes that summed up the whole business of his life in a few chunks of stone.

"Beach, you probably shouldn't be hanging out the door like that," Duke said, his voice ever so faintly strangled. Beach Head kept his face impassive with some effort: it was no secret that the oh-so-tough Duke wasn't a big fan of flying. Reluctantly, he stepped back from the door of the craft and slid it back into place before settling into his seat again.

"Old habits die hard," he said, shrugging innocently. "It's always interestin' to see a town from this far up."

Duke looked faintly green. Beach didn't blame him for his phobia—everyone had their quirks. Hell, he himself wasn't too keen on needles—but as an Airborne Ranger, it was practically required that he torment anybody who was less than comfortable with flying. In fact, he'd been remiss about it before: Duke usually got a pass on his phobia because a) he was still damn good on mission, no matter how spooked he was, and b) if Beach and Duke were in a plane, Snake-Eyes was probably there too, and despite also being Airborne the ninja wasn't too keen on flying either. Beach wasn't quite careless enough to make fun of anyone afraid of flying when six feet of pointy death might take it personally.

"Back inside, sergeant major," Hawk said, his tone bemused. The general himself was in his full rig, stars _and _stripes, but he looked as comfortable as anyone could be in full formalwear could be. Not that that meant anything: it was common knowledge that one of the biggest blows to Joe undercover ops had been losing the use of the general, since he could fake anything like a pro. Hawk was sneaky like that, which was good, but it made gauging his temper in rough situations difficult. All in a day's work.

The craft steadied and began to descend.

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><p>It wasn't the White House, but it might as well have been. The mansion was huge, with broad sloping lawns and what seemed like acres of topiary cut into tasteful abstract shapes. To Beach Head, it looked both opulent and impersonal: like Lady Catherine de Bourgh's manor at Rosings Park, it was made more for the glory of its owner than anything else.<p>

(Yes, Beach Head had read _Pride and Prejudice. _It had been the only book Jaye had to spare when they were trapped in that crappy shack in transalpine Gattorcia for a week and a half. He'd made her swear never to reveal his shameful secret, on pain of PT until the end of time.)

The tilt-rotor craft landed smoothly and almost silently on the mansion's third helicopter pad. Herds of waiters, white-coated and carrying trays of champagne, swarmed around the landing pads waiting for the VIPs to emerge. There wasn't a red carpet: that would have been too gauche, as if they were lowering themselves to the level of mere movie stars. The carpet was blue, and so expensive that it could afford to be plain. There were no photographers, either—most of them had been corralled by discreetly anonymous security guards, to prevent them from taking shots of anyone arriving on the helicopter pads.

Beach Head, never one to trifle with his commanding officer's safety, grudgingly approved of that: though bound to uphold the Constitution, including freedom of the press, he personally hated journalists and had seen too many of them turn out to be undercover types. Keeping the sneaky bastards at a safe distance meant one less thing to worry about.

"Look pleasant, gentlemen," Hawk reminded them as the engine whirred to a halt. "Or at least, not hostile," he added. "We're here to leave these people with a good impression of our armed forces. That means no swearing, no fighting, and no forcing the dictator of anything to run laps. Understood?"

"Yes, sir!" both men said, saluting crisply. Hawk nodded.

"Then let's go meet the upper crust."

The doors opened. Hawk squared his shoulders and suddenly looked completely at ease. Duke had a slightly glacial look, but he was the picture of the All-American Fighting Man. Beach Head was . . . presentable.

They stepped down from the craft, Beach and Duke falling into step behind Hawk, automatically scanning for trouble. One of the waiters offered the general champagne; he declined with a polite nod and the others did the same. A stray reporter snapped a quick picture of the three men, and Beach Head clamped down on the urge to growl at him. Damn vultures.

A lady in a glittering gown came sailing down the carpet in a cloud of carefully-curled hair and expensive perfume, trailed by a secretary with a guest list. Beach automatically catalogued the new arrival: silver (platinum?) jewelry set with emeralds, a designer clutch (not big enough for any of the standard concealable pistol models, but knives and plastique come in all sizes), a close-cut gown (tough to hide weapons under that—and he ought to know, Scarlett, Jaye and Courtney complained about it often enough), too much makeup (concealing notable features?) and a seemingly genuine smile. First impressions—not a threat, but monitor for possible misbehavior. The secretary was much easier to survey: she was Type IV, I'm a _Personal Assistant_ Goddammit, with a twist of Disgruntled Yet Loyal. Not a threat, unless she got a few gin and tonics in her.

"General Abernathy!" the gowned woman called out in a genial Boston accent. "I'm so glad you agreed to come. I know the senators are looking forward to talking with you informally—not in one of those boring committee briefings." Her eyes wandered over the two aides—lingering on Duke, Beach observed. "And who are these two? They look quite intimidating."

"These are my aides for the evening, in case civilization collapses before dessert." The lady laughed. "This is Sergeant Hauser-" Duke nodded cordially "-and Sergeant Major Sneeden." Beach Head attempted to duplicate Duke's nonchalance, but didn't try for the half smile; he tended not to be too good at things like that. "Sergeant, sergeant major, this is our hostess, Mrs. Edith Mason."

"Call me Edie," she said, smiling and saluting with one emerald-bedecked hand. Her salute was terrible, Beach Head noted. "I know some people who are just dying to meet you gentlemen, too. It's so hard to really learn about anything until you've heard it from an expert, and where the country's safety is concerned, we absolutely have to know all we can! Oh, oops! General, I'm so sorry." She laughed again, a surprisingly coquettish giggle for a lady of her apparent age. "I shouldn't have said that, should I? I always feel sorry for doctors and lawyers who have to spend parties getting interrogated about their work by other peoples' interfering wives. I'll do my best not to mention it again, I promise."

Hawk began to say something, but another helicopter was arriving, and Edie Mason quickly made her excuses and sailed off towards it to do her hostess duty again. Her secretary followed gingerly, her heels sinking into the wet grass as she chased after her employer. All three men spotted her long-suffering look.

"All well?" Hawk said to Duke and Beach, who nodded mutely. "Remember, there's about thirty more of that model alone in there. Sergeant major, put your eyes back in your head, you didn't just hallucinate that. Sergeant, no laughing."

Sergeant and sergeant major composed themselves, appropriately abashed, and the trio set off down the long walk towards the house. Servants and attendants were everywhere, and the walk itself was like a stroll through an art gallery: a string quartet was performing in a small copse of rosebushes, several curious and abstract pieces of statuary had tamed vines growing over them, and a decorative pond was lit with miniature lanterns floating in tiny boats. Several of the passing guests oohed and aahed over the effort put into just making the walk to the house a feast for the eyes, but Beach Head noted that at least half of them, especially the women and older male guests, elected to ride in the chauffeured golf carts set up for that purpose. With the women, it was mostly because of their impractical shoes, but Beach could see no reason for most of the men. _Lazy bastards, _he scoffed mentally. _Just 'cause they've got money, think they can lord it-_

Hell! He stamped down on those thoughts quickly. Five minutes in Richtown, and part of him was ten and peering through the fence at kids who had new shoes and a puppy. Beach Head the enlisted man firmly squashed Wayne the envious kid . . . for now.

If you asked Beach Head whether he was prejudiced, he would look at you blankly. Race or sex had never bothered him; all were equal before God, Man, and Sergeant Major. But if you asked him whether he ever automatically disliked someone—and you didn't get hurt for it—he might have answered that some people were born with more money than was good for them. Some hurts bury deep.

The walk ended on a huge verandah, where Venetian glass doors were propped wide open. Respectful types in more white jackets took the guests' coats, and the soldiers were chivvied on through like they were royalty. Beach could overhear snatches of conversation in half a dozen languages, plus more Boston, and the collective value of the guests' jewelry was easily approaching eight figures.

From what the sergeant major could suss out, a Gala was a party that, like an amphibious landing, proceeded in stages. This seemed to be the cocktail-party stage, where loads of the wealthy and the important roamed through several rooms of a frankly gigantic estate, talking and drinking and nibbling like extremely well-off hamsters. There was a private art gallery, a media center, a library, and a lot of other things, all of them filled with potential targets for assassination and lined with bodyguards in anonymous suits. Several people shot the soldiers lingering looks as they moved past. Duke and Hawk seemed not to notice, but all the attention was making Beach Head's back itch.

"General!" a familiar voice called out. Duke and Beach both tensed for a quarter of a second before the owner of said voice moved into view, emerging from behind a rather horrific piece of sculpture that guarded the entrance to the library—a slim blonde figure in sedate blue, carrying another tiny clutch (seriously, Beach Head thought. What was the point of those dinky little things?) and wearing a choker with a design of jade leaves. None of the men needed to take inventory on this one: Senator Barbara Larkin, onetime target of Cobra and now . . . uh . . .

. . . Well, if the reports from the kitchen gossip hotline were to be believed, she was now something that none of the Joes knew absolutely anything about and would never discuss within earshot of anybody who looked even vaguely like Pentagon personnel. Hawk was their commander, dammit, and should a single person even breathe one syllable of a _hint _that there were untoward connections between the military and the legislative branch, there would be Consequences.

Which is why, when Larkin kissed the general on the cheek, neither Duke nor Beach Head noticed. Perfectly friendly gesture. Nothing to it.

"Sgt. Hauser_ and_ Sgt. Major Sneeden," she said, smiling at them both. "You really brought the cavalry, General Abernathy."

"Actually, ma'am, we're infantry," Duke responded smoothly. Beach Head clamped down on the urge not to tell him to keep his mouth shut. This was a party. People had fun at parties. Duke was good at being a person.

"If I brought the cavalry, we'd all be in trouble," Hawk said. His tone was dry, but there was a touch of amusement in it. "I don't think Mrs. Mason would appreciate Corporal Krieger parking the Wolverine on the lawn. Hauser and Sneeden will have to do for the evening."

"Actually, I was hoping I could drag you away from them for a few minutes. Some of the other senators and their wives have started a bridge game in the library, and we need just one more player while Senator Phillips finishes throwing up in the hydrangeas." Hawk raised one eyebrow at that, and Larkin shrugged a little. "He's been in office since 1936. Nobody's fazed by it any more. What do you say, general?"

"Duty calls." He nodded to Beach Head and Duke. "Amuse yourself, gentlemen. Sergeant, make sure to find that attaché and get his report. Sergeant major . . . stay out of trouble."

Beach Head did not, in fact, object. However, as the officer he was supposed to be protecting disappeared into the library to circulate among the political wolves, he did shoot a glare at Duke, who was valiantly suppressing a grin.

"You didn't know he could do that, did you," Duke said bemusedly.

Beach Head grunted noncommittally. "I don't exactly spend a lot of time gladhanding the bigwigs, Hauser. I thought we were supposed t'guard him."

"We're aides, sergeant major. That can cover anything from getting attachés to getting drinks." Beach Head couldn't quite hide his alarmed look, and Duke really did grin this time. "Relax. General H—Abernathy gets his own drinks. But if the general's going to be playing bridge, that means we're free for a least a few minutes . . . or rather, you are."

"Nah, I got my orders," Beach Head said vaguely. Not really, but Hauser didn't need to know that, did he? Damn orders, putting him on an op with All-American apple-pie-in-his-veins Hauser.

"I'm pretty sure 'stay out of trouble' wasn't an order. More like a commandment."

"You gonna get smart with a superior, _sergeant? _I can make you do pushups anywhere and anytime, no matter how many creases you got in your pants," Beach Head growled. A passing ambassador's wife charted a path around them, eyes wide at the sergeant major's tone.

"No, sergeant major. Just doing my job, sergeant major." Duke was still having fun, damn him. "I have an attaché to find. Don't go in the library and hover behind the general; people will think you're helping him cheat. In fact, don't go in the library at all." At Beach Head's thunderous expression, Duke took a step back. "Not presuming to give you orders, sergeant major. Just a little advice. Helping you assess the lay of the land."

"Right. Dismissed."

Duke moved off, confident with just a touch of cocky, and Beach Head shook his head a little.

Stay out of trouble. Right.

How hard could that be?


	3. BYOB

**Author's Note:** This chapter is probably my least favorite out of all the ones I have planned and scripted. Unfortunately, some transitional moments are just awkward, and there wasn't a better place to make the chapter cut than here. I hope it still amuses, anyway-and thanks to all my readers for sticking with this weird little experiment in social humiliation.

One of the artworks described here is real. One is not. I should note that I have nothing against modern art, but . . . well . . . it doesn't look like stuff. Beach Head strikes me as very much a "pictures should look like things" kind of guy.

The trick Beach Head uses here is actually a well-known and excellent move when faced with the terrifying beasts known as Wine Experts.

**Rating: **T

**Pairings: **None, really. Some mentions and innuendo.

**Disclaimer: **G.I. Joe and all associated characters and concepts are property of Hasbro Inc, and I derive no profit from this. Please accept this in the spirit with which it is offered—as a work of respect and love, not an attempt to claim ownership or earn money from this intellectual property.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Three: BYOB<strong>

Stay out of trouble. Stay out of trouble.

Five minutes after being let loose, Beach Head was starting to wonder if it was going to be such an easy task after all.

Sunglasses-wearing security guards or no, Mrs. Edith Adele Mason's house was a bodyguard's nightmare. It had begun its existence as some kind of fancy chalet, probably built for one of the many 19th-century Washington moneybags who wanted to be the aristocracy of a land without titles, but at some point the interior had been gutted and redone on a distinctly modern line. '40s International School influence, Beach Head guessed, and he didn't like the idea. With its emphasis on straight lines, big windows, metallic surfaces, and few colors, guests stood out in a International School building like they were all wearing orange safety vests. Mies van der Rohe had probably helped in more assassinations than Smith & Wesson.

The thought brought a small, wry smile to his lips. Brazil, '89: Wilhelm Koenig von Sutterheim—aging Bauhaus architect, acclaimed world artistic treasure, and pain in GI Joe's ass—had ranted about architecture and worker consciousness for all of the five days it had taken Beach Head's team to rescue him from Cobra's clutches and the country. (Why Cobra would even _want _him, Beach didn't know, but he suspected that that one could be chalked up to Cobra Commander and his 'special tendencies.') Evidently some of von Sutterheim's rantings had stuck with him. Whoop-de-doo.

With that cheerful thought in mind, Beach Head went to work. Hawk was in the library, and Duke was off meeting that attaché; that left him to walk the perimeter and check out the lay of the land, which he was frankly glad to do. All these people were still talking and drinking and nibbling, conversing in foreign languages (most of which he spoke, but he didn't aim to let that on) and, as far as Beach could tell, doing absolutely nothing that justified their fancy gear or painful-looking shoes.

Initial observation: he stood out. That was clear enough from the expressions on the faces of the people near him, which weren't hostile but occasionally nervous and definitely questioning. He didn't look like he belonged. _Duke _did—something about being blond made you more acceptable in a crowd like this, Beach Head guessed. Either that, or it was that strange Dukeness that the First Sergeant seemed to radiate. At any rate, two uniforms were acceptable, but one was noticeable. Can't be uniform in an army of one, after all. Time to, goddammit, _blend._

He glanced around, looking for a way to commence with the blending operation. This part of the house seemed to be mainly games and recreation, like the bridge group General Hawk had joined; half a dozen senators were gathered around an expensive-looking table and playing at being poker champions with almost comical ineptitude, while some poindexter-looking type was giving an impromptu lecture on Dale Chihuly (wherever the hell that was) to a trio of bored socialites. Through it all drifted the ever-present waiters, serene and unfazed. They creeped Beach Head out, and he automatically looked each one over before they left the room. None of them seemed to be packing, but that didn't mean he wouldn't keep an eye on them anyway.

After committing the map of the area to memory and making sure that nobody had entered the library, Beach Head moved on to the next room. It was a long gallery, broad and brightly-lit, and filled with objects that appeared to be—after several careful moments' of study on Beach's part—works of art. That is, they involved paint and plaster and other arty materials. One was an extremely bad painting of a cross-eyed woman holding a banana. It was labeled "Exaltation," and its little brass plaque talked enthusiastically about the artist and his Disumbrationist school of painting. The picture next to it had cigarette butts and a used cocktail napkin stapled to the canvas. Its plaque informed him that the work's title was "Emotional Literacy."

Sergeant Major Wayne R. Sneeden had never been subjected to a five-day lecture on modern art. He certainly had never studied it: while the impoverished young Wayne had soaked up information like a sponge, his goals and driving need to escape poverty had led him towards history, math, science and physical education. _Useful _topics, as he liked to think of them. He had nothing against art (though the next person to assume that his life would be enriched by a black velvet Elvis would be doing pushups until their arms fell off). It just wasn't his area of expertise.

Nevertheless, as he gazed at "Exaltation," he had the distinct feeling that someone was pulling his leg. Nobody could be _that _bad of a painter, right?

He wasn't even going to touch "Emotional Literacy." Especially since some of the cocktail napkins appeared to have mold growing on them, and mold was a fucking disgrace, no matter how artistic it was. Beach Head was willing to bet his greenshirts—even the slow ones—could knock out better pictures than this load of crap, and for a hell of a lot less than whatever Mrs. Mason had paid, too. Though maybe he shouldn't mention that to his greenies; some of 'em didn't have the sense their mothers gave 'em, and he didn't want to have to explain to Hawk when it inevitably blew up in their faces.

At least the art gallery was marginally safer than the library. There were no windows, probably to keep sunlight from fading the paintings, and lines of sight were partially obscured by several massive glass sculptures that distorted the gallery lights and threw reflections every which way. Maybe once the bridge game was over, Beach could get the general to appreciate art for the rest of the evening?

That might work. Beach made a mental note to bring up the subject as soon as he could get hold of Hawk again and started walking the perimeter of the gallery, making sure that there really was nothing there to present a threat to his commanding officer. No apparent hostile presence . . . although those sculptures _were _pretty damned pointy. He knelt down and checked each piece carefully, making sure that there weren't any shaped charges or frag grenades taped anywhere out of the normal line of sight. Passing guests started giving him odd looks, but Beach Head mumbled something about "fascinating piece, amazing use of color," and they left him alone.

Hah! Stay out of trouble, eh, Duke? Who was blending the fuck in now?

Unfortunately, someone else seemed to be using the gallery for something besides art appreciating. As he moved around one of the sculptures, he spotted a long table set by the far wall, draped in flawless white cloths and set with a number of bottles and glasses. More of the spooky waiters were there, handing out glasses to people as they approached and taking them back when they were emptied. The waiters were being directed by a skinny, mustachioed type in a black tuxedo jacket and white bow tie. Beach narrowed his eyes: Mr. Mustache seemed to be the man in the know, and the waiters scurried to obey him when he snapped at them. A whole bunch of influential-looking people, more men and women in expensive clothes, were lining up to take the glasses his people were handing out. What the hell was going on? Who was this guy, who had control over the serving staff and could be dishing out poisoned cocktails to visiting heads of state?

Not just heads of state, either. As he drew closer, Beach Head recognized one of the men: Ronald Tarrant, the current US ambassador to Monaco. His spine stiffened a little as he remembered that FUBAR mission—where it had come down to him, Flint and Courtney, holed up in a second-floor Senate office while two Senators and the ambassador panicked and Cobra bullets dug holes in the oh-so-expensive antique desk. He doubted Tarrant would recognize him (and people wondered why he always wore the mask), but that didn't make him any happier to see the little weasel here. Beach had met plenty of ambassadors, and many of them were fine men, but there was always a Lt. Falcon in every bunch.

As he watched, the ambassador took a sip of wine from the glass he'd been handed, swished it around in his mouth, and then _spat it out_ into an empty cup a waiter was holding. Beach mentally recoiled, disgusted by the man's manners, but seconds later another man did the same thing—hocking a loogie that had, seconds before, had probably been some supreme grand vintage worth a year of Beach Head's pay. Take a glass, sip, spit, rinse and repeat.

What the hell was wrong with these people? Wayne's mother had slapped him when she caught him spitting in public. Did they even know how many poor kids' lives they could change with the cost of one bottle of the fancy hooch they weren't even drinking?

Sudden anger and wasp-stung pride shoved Beach Head forward. He opened his mouth, ready to bellow _something—_and shut it in surprise as a glass was pushed into his hand. The man in charge, Mr. Mustache, raised an eyebrow at Beach's rate-constipated expression and then looked down at the glass the waiter had handed him.

"Is there a problem, sir?" he said.

_Don't make a scene. Blend. Blend. _Beach firmly grabbed Wayne Sneeden by the scruff of the neck and shoved him into the back of his brain. "Uh, no," he said. "Just . . . thinking. What's this stuff?"

"If we disclose our vintages, the palate will be jaded by expectation," Mr. Mustache said calmly. "Mrs. Mason has arranged this experience so that her guests will be able to experience the true flavors of these unique potables."

"I'm surprised you don't know that, sergeant," a familiar voice added, and Beach Head twitched just a little bit. The squirrely ambassador was at his elbow, a fresh glass in hand. "Or is this your first function? Don't get the chance to get off the leash much?"

Forget Wayne-the-kid and his issues; _Beach _would be perfectly happy to introduce this pantywaist pogue to the floor tiles, preferably with his own boot right in the middle of those narrow shoulders. But his mental Sergeant Major, who outranked both Wayne and Beach and was much louder, gave him a smack and repeated the order to _blend, goddammit. _"Er, not really," he just said. "An' it's sergeant major, Ambassador Tarrant."

The smaller man raised an eyebrow. "Oh, have we met?"

_Once. You were groveling in fear at the time. _"Nah. 'S my job to know all the higher-ups at fancy dos like this. So, uh, how's yer wine?"

The ambassador swirled the wine in his glass, peering at it, and then took a sip. "Good legs," he said. "Formidable nose. Strong personality and acidic attitude, with undertones of tannin and rosewater. Strong, leathery palate with a Grand Cru finish. What about yours, sergeant major?"

Beach Head frowned. Along with art, wine tasting hadn't exactly been an accelerated course offered at the Auburn secondary schools. His first instinct was to say "What the hell? It's just wine!" He didn't, though: that wasn't a very blending thing to say. He was already walking the walk, so he had to . . . talk the talk?

Still frowning, he took a sip. It tasted like . . . wine. Alcoholic grape juice. How the hell was he supposed to know about legs and nose and stuff like that? Unless Dr. Mindbender had gotten into the bottling business since he'd last checked, wine wasn't supposed to _have _legs. Irritated and confused, he improvised.

"Short legs," he said, casting a glance at the ambassador out of the corner of his eye. "Small, aggressively unpleasant and inquisitive. Bad nose." The ambassador's nose _was _bad; Beach Head recognized the signs of a coke habit when he saw them. "Smells like cheap aftershave."

"I had no idea you were an oenophile, sergeant major," the ambassador said with obvious surprise—and a little disdain. Beach's temper flared again, just a bit, but he stamped down on it. Back in the Pit, where he was undisputed lord and master of the greenshirts and the Dr. Moreau of the PT course, he could be free to be snarky as he liked. Here, he was just some big lug in a uniform, and this useless twerp of an ambassador was one of the people he was sworn to safeguard in his position as a sergeant major of the United States Army. He couldn't make this stuck-up little expletive-deleted-this-is-a-nice-party-goddammit drop and give him fifty.

No matter how much good it would have done him. Clearly, the ambassador had been tasting a little more than just wine for the past . . . oh . . . thirty years. So he improvised.

Fortunately, he spoke French. And knew Lady Jaye.

"Yeah, well," he drawled, letting the Alabama creep back into his voice, "it does a man good to have a few hobbies while he's servin' his country. It ain't no Chobraux Rouge—ain't got no backbone, and the tannin levels are totally incompatible with what one expects in this type'a potable. Ah once found a real impudent Cerveau Courber on the coast a' Frusenhagen; can't imagine how it wound up there, since the local conditions are totally wrong for maintainin' the head on that kind'a thing. No wonder it had gone all foxed on us, huh?" He laughed and slapped the ambassador on the back, as if sharing a joke between two accomplished intellectuals. "Tasted a bit like that. Ah'm thinkin' this here's a specialty—takes a refined taster, y'know, t'preciate that kind'a heirloom quality."

And with another hearty slap, he strolled off, feeling the baffled ambassador's gaze on his back and trying very hard not to grin. Jaye had been right: the more jargon you used, the more confused people would get, but if you threw in French they wouldn't get _mad. _It was a trick he'd have to remember.

Duke caught up with him again just outside one of the indoor ornamental fancy-type greenhouse things. "You're smiling," he said guardedly. "Is Hawk going to have to buy some poor senator's silence?"

"What, you think I can't be subtle?" Beach snorted. "Everything's fine. We oughtta see about gettin' Hawk into the art gallery, though; lousy place for an ambush, lots of witnesses. There's a picture of a lady holding a banana he might like."

The sergeant gave him a sideways look. "Sergeant major?"

"Yeah?"

"Have you been drinking?"

"Have you?" Duke looked confused at that, and Beach elaborated. "'Cause if you keep going much longer, you're gonna be on the ground covered in your own puke and sobbin'."

"Question withdrawn." The sergeant shook his head. "I've talked to the attaché," he added in a slightly lower voice, "and to Hawk. The bridge game's almost over, but he doesn't want us to wait for him. The orders are to mingle."

Something about the way Duke said the last word sent a chill down Beach's spine. "Not with the . . . the Mrs. Mason types, right?"

"He said, and I quote, 'we need to make ourselves approachable to the Washington elite.'"

" . . . well, fuck."

There was a look in Duke's eyes, and Beach didn't like that look. It was something almost like pity. "He told me to go talk to the cabinet ministers. Will you be all right with the social side of things?"

"Do I look like a goddamn kid? I don't need a damn chaperone! Move your ass!" Beach said, because the strange feeling of panic gripping his gut had completely negated his moment of triumph in the art gallery and that was making him more than a little cranky. The women here were just as rich—and weird—as the men, but both Wayne and Sergeant Major agreed with Beach that he couldn't yell at them. Not polite. Not to women. And oh boy, he was going to say that at some point, and then Courtney would find out and kill him.

Heh. Now there was a woman who didn't know the meaning of 'polite.'

Duke, not privy to Beach Head's thoughts, moved his ass and the sergeant major was left alone. Once more into the breach, right? Time to go find some society ladies and compliment them on their useless little handbags or something.

He could do this.


End file.
